


Soft Focus

by whimsicalmuse



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Filming Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-23
Updated: 2004-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7728319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalmuse/pseuds/whimsicalmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not sure how to deal with what he sees in the mirror. Autoerotic warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft Focus

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Shirasade: this story was originally archived at the [Monaboyd.net Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Monaboyd.net), which was closed in September 2014 due to software issues and a lack of new submissions for several years. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2014. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Monaboyd.net Archive collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Monaboyd_Archive/profile).
> 
> \----
> 
> Warning: Angst. Dom uses a toy. If this bothers you don’t read. Some _might_ also feel that it is implied that Dom has or is using some type of drug, though I didn’t intend for it, I can see where they can read that, so don’t read if that will squick you.  
>  Author’s Note: This was in response to a challenge issued by domhobbitzes who requested Dom pleasuring himself, with eyeliner and matted hair.  >_> The lovely jaynecortese was kind enough to beta. Implied Monaboyd connection, and to my dismay, this bunnie has a hold of my jugular, so expect to see something from this same verse, later.  
>  Feedback: Will be used to offset my trips to the therapist. : )

 

 

Walking out of the club was like pulling velvet off damp skin. The music trailed behind him, a veritable fog of bass and synthetics, and the choke of cigarette smoke clung to his flushed skin as he stumbled home. It was an early night for him, probably because he wasn’t on the pull, but tonight he didn’t much feel like it. He didn’t feel like much of anything, except slinking away from the stifling air and strobe lights, and the cut of his smile on her lips.

When he found himself in front of the door to his hotel, he smirked at the ease with which he managed to slide the key card in, and pushed into the darkened room. He was still warm from the club, and the shock from cold air on his skin was a rude burn. He exhaled sharply, and stepped toward the air conditioner and shut it off. What kind of nutter would turn on the air in December in Paris was beyond him, but he vaguely remembered when he woke up from a cold sweat the night before, that he turned it on. He must have left it on, he supposed, as he peeled off his leather cuffs and jacket. His bladder then reminded him of the last cocktail he had. He strode heavily into the bathroom, his boots clunking dully against the tiles, which gleamed like rain slicked windows, blue and white, with grey caulk in between. The juxtaposition of his black boot against tile stole his gaze for a moment, though he didn’t know why. He pulled his eyes up when the lines ran like paint into one another, though he did not know if this was from tears or from the sweat that was dripping from his matted hair.

He was not sure how to deal with what he saw in the mirror. Long strands of hair, sticky with sweat and gel, clung to pallid skin, and the scrape of stubble against his fleshy palm was the most he had felt in ages, so he ran long fingers over the dark hair, in slow metered motions until his finger tips were pink. He had leaned forward over the sink, to glare at the purple shadows under his eyes which were smudged with dark kohl. His mind wandered back to the club, and the image of two compact bodies writhing together on the dance flashed before him, and he shook himself, and turned back to the reason he came to the bathroom. Minutes later, his bladder was empty, but his cock was still flushed, and protested being shoved back into the confines of synthetic fabric and a metal fly. He sneered at this, his palm rubbing absentmindedly, as he huffed back into the room. He didn’t want to do this tonight. He wanted to resist the quickening in his blood whenever he saw a flash of clover eyes and a smug bowtie grin. But this was a habit he couldn’t kick, not after years of wanting. Despite his best intentions and recent good progress, tonight he was bound to fall off the wagon.

 

His hands didn’t even tremble as he dug in his careworn duffle bag, pulling out supplies he would loathe to have someone else see, but could not leave to the privacy of his home. His pants fell down with a soft swish and abrupt clunk of metal, and the bed whined against the dip of his weight. He waited for the calm to settle over him, until his focus melted away and narrowed, and when he opened his eyes, he was ready for what he knew would come. He wondered how it would be here, in the most romantic city in Europe, and how he would squirm against the sheets under the pressure of a sure mouth and firm hands. But before he could dwell on possibility, he felt another presence, and smiled inwardly at the feel of a heated gaze raking across his bare skin.

“Putting on a few pounds, Monaghan?”

Dom looked up lazily into the Bill’s face, not surprised at his arrival, and relaxed against the pillows. He knew that in the streetlights, and dull lamplight, his ribs could easily be seen jutting out against freckled pale skin.

“You tell me, you’re staring.”

Pretense had been abandoned when Dom moved to Los Angeles, he wasn’t sure. Therefore, he wasn’t a bit surprised to hear the mattress groan again as Bill crawled atop the duvet, until he was just out of reach. There was a silent battle of resolve, both men panting loudly in the still of the room, until Dom gave in, and reached up towards Bill. He pulled away from his embrace, lips curled.

Dom growled in protest. “What do you want?”

“Touch yourself.”

Dom gulped, rested his head back against the pillows, and snaked a damp hand down his torso, pausing to rub pink nipples, before resting hesitantly at the peaks of his hips. He glanced up again, his mouth forming a protest, but the set of Bill’s jaw reminded him that he was not in control here. With a gulp, he cupped his balls and gave a gentle squeeze, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

“Harder, Dommie. Grab your cock.”

 

He could hear subtle movement, perhaps from Bill shifting his weight as he sat down, poised just beyond his fingertips, but his mind shut down when he felt the pads of his fingers as they swirled the bead of liquid that had settled at his head. He stroked himself experimentally, his dick swelling at the friction of rough palms and velvet, and fell into the familiar lazy rhythm that had been with him since his teens. He had closed his eyes as he lay in languid pleasure, and when he opened them, he was faced with steel and fire.

“Faster.”

The purr of his brogue, like wool and melted chocolate, sent lightening bolts to his cock, and he moaned softly, but readily obeyed. When he looked down at his slick fingers wrapped around his cock, swiveling up and down at a dizzying pace, he couldn’t see Bill anymore, and for a moment, his breath hitched, and his hands slowed involuntarily.

“Dominic.”

It was a warning, and a gracious one at that, because Bill rarely gave warnings. He redoubled his efforts, his other hand obeying the soft command to cup his balls, and squeeze again. Squeeze until he cried out in pain, the bite of his nails a contrast to the sweet coil of heat that was swirling in his belly, so fast, so much, until…

“Stop.”

He didn’t stop, though he slowed his pace, and choked out a reply. “What?”

“I said stop. You don’t want this. Not like this.”

He clenched his teeth, and reluctantly pulled his hands away, and balled them in the crisp duvet. After a few cleansing breaths, he managed to roll over, wincing at the press of his screaming cock against his belly, until he found what he was looking for, and placed them on the bed. Bill looked down appreciatively, before motioning for Dom to continue.

He plucked up his toy, and swallowed around the lump in his throat. His thoughts skittered over preparing himself better, but one more glance at the greedy smile that hovered over him, and he chased that sensibility away with impatiently slicked fingers. Then there was the familiar press, the solid weight that demanded supplication, until he was filled completely, and hissing in the stark silence of the room. His fingers gripped the base tightly, so as not to slip off, and he began an experimental pace, with soft thrusts that didn’t quite reach where he needed.

“You’re teasing, Dom. Faster. More.”

He groaned and gasped sharply, pulling his knees back further, as he repositioned his arms to allow for better access. The faster pace was just the trick, and as his hips thrust up, seeking contact with warm skin that was not there, his cock jumped as the feel of his prostate being caressed into awakening. He was wound from his toes to his scalp, and with every thrust he tilted his head back with abandon. He muttered nonsensical curses and shut his eyes against the glare of a spotlight as it danced across the curtains. Sweat dripped down between his brow and from his lips, and splashed out in a tiny spray as he whispered blindly into the chill.

Bill made a noise of impatience, and then voiced a new command.

“Open your eyes.”

He inhaled and obeyed, one hand controlling the rapid thrusts while the other pulled away from his thigh to stroke himself. When he came into focus, he saw no one. He couldn’t dwell on the surprise, or take back the moment because he was falling into a thousand pieces, and needed to be collected and put together again. He felt hot sticky pool on his concave belly, and he reached out to grasp Bill. He wanted to feel the warm skin and soft hairs beneath his fingers and see laughing eyes glitter down at him.

Instead, he saw the generic painting, framed in metallic silver, hanging on the wall. He felt the grain of the duvet under his fingertips, and heard a horn blare on the street below. He might have heard a muffled voice cry out angrily in reply, but then again, he might have heard the sound of the door closing, and swift footsteps trail down the hall. What he did know was the raw ache that returned to his chest, while black tears fell from his chin. And he knew the sound of Bill’s name, whispered into the night, as he curled on his side, and drifted into a pained sleep. As he drifted off, he blinked slowly, as the fog settled over him, until the ocean roared in his ears, and the streetlights faded into a streaming blur.


End file.
